Christmas Blues
by Jen Martin
Summary: A sequel to "The Winter Beasts." Kirby's jealous when Doc gets a two-day pass for Christmas, but unbeknownst to the squad, Hanley has given the medic a special mission.
1. Two-Day Pass

**Christmas Blues**

_This is a direct sequel to "The Winter Beasts," so it will make more sense if you've read that one first._

_**Chapter 1: Two-Day Pass**_

"You gonna get a dame for Christmas, Doc?" Kirby looked up from his poker game, an impish smile on his face as he relished the medic's discomfort. "You'll tell us all about it when you get back, won't you? Let us know what we're missing?"

"Shut up, Kirby," Caje raised his friend a dollar. "Give Doc a break."

Doc shot him a grateful look as he stuffed another shirt in his duffel bag.

"Well, how come he's the only one to get a pass?" Kirby asked in aggrieved tones. "We've all been through hell in the last few days!"

"We've been through nothing," Caje snarled. "Think you've had it hard?" His dark eyes caught Kirby's, who looked away quickly. "I've raised a dollar and Littlejohn's seen my bet. Are you in or out?"

"I'm out," Kirby muttered, tossing his cards down. "Can't ever seem to stick, can I?" He shoved his chair back and grabbed his jacket, pushing past Doc and disappearing out into the night.

Caje rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. "_Ma bouche_."

Littlejohn shrugged. "He's not mad at you."

"I know." Caje sighed, glancing at Doc. "He's not sore about your leave, either. Jealous, but not sore."

Doc nodded, swinging his bag onto his back.

"Eat some turkey for us, OK?" Littlejohn said.

"Sure." Doc's voice was soft. "Sure. That's probably just what I'll do."

"You'll tell us when you get back, right?" Doc could see the hunger on the big man's face. How long had it been since any of them had eaten a meal that hadn't come out of a can?

"Yeah. I'll tell you all about it." Dropping his eyes, Doc quickly opened the door. He nearly ran into Kirby, who was coming back in, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Kirby looked like he was going to say something, but Doc didn't give him the chance. He hurried on without looking up, jumping into the truck that was waiting, engine idling, to make the trip back from the front.

X X X

Doc's destination was a village only fifteen miles behind the American lines, but it took nearly an hour to get there. The road was rutted and icy, with deep potholes that were hard to avoid in the dark. Doc was far better acquainted with his fellow passengers than he'd have liked by the time they arrived. He figured he'd spent most of the last mile trying to stay out of the lap of the corporal sitting across from him.

It was amazing the difference fifteen miles could make. Doc swung down out of the truck as soon as it stopped, gaping like a kid at the soldiers in crisp uniforms, their faces close-shaven and clean. Laughing voices poured out of a café near the corner. The medic closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the fresh, cold air. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and despite the Germans' efforts to the contrary, it looked like he would live through it. A couple of days ago, he wouldn't have laid any bets.

Under other circumstances, he'd have headed straight for the café and ordered the best meal he could with his limited French and even more limited funds, but food was the last thing on his mind. Shouldering his bag, he set out for the field hospital. Lieutenant Hanley had told him the army had commandeered a girls' boarding school near the center of the village. _There's no way you can miss it_, he'd said. Doc hoped that was true. Hanley had also told him, his face drawn and solemn, not to waste any time.

Doc's feet were blistered from walking too long in wet boots, giving him a wobbly, ungainly gait. He should have taken better care of them, but he hadn't noticed how damaged they were until yesterday. Then it was too late. He knew he should stay off them for a couple of days and let them heal, but that wasn't an option.

He was limping by the time he reached the center of the village. The lieutenant was right: the hospital was easy to spot. A white banner emblazoned with a red cross hung out of one of the second story windows, marking it off-limits to the antagonists. The building was originally three stories tall, but the left wing had been reduced to half a story by artillery. The right wing was largely intact, and it was here the Americans had set up their largest hospital in the sector.

As Doc climbed the stone steps to the main door, an ambulance screeched to a halt just below him. Two medics rushed out with a stretcher, nearly knocking him over. They looked so harried, he thought about following them and offering his help, but then he remembered the concern in Lieutenant Hanley's eyes. _Casualties are heavy and they don't have enough staff. Take a look and see what the situation is._ Doc sighed. His orders were clear and he couldn't afford to be distracted.

He had to stand in line for information, shifting impatiently from one sore foot to the other as he waited his turn. The nurse looked like she was ready to snap and he'd have liked to bypass her, but it was quicker to ask for directions than to search the wards. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably be stopped anyway before he got very far, but Doc figured everyone was so busy tonight he probably could wander into an operating room and start cutting before anyone thought to ask who he was. "Excuse me, miss?"

"Lieutenant." The nurse frowned fiercely, and Doc almost wished he were back up at the front under fire. At least then he could duck.

He remembered he was still wearing his helmet and pulled it off, awkwardly tucking it under his arm. "I'm… I'm sorry, lieutenant, you see, I…"

"What is it you want? There are six men waiting behind you, you know."

"Yeah." Doc glanced nervously over his shoulder. "I'm looking for my sergeant—Saunders, from King Company. He was brought in yesterday."

"How badly was he wounded?" The nurse consulted her clipboard, not looking up.

"Well, not too badly," Doc said, "but he's sick with the flu. He's got a real rough case and I'm worried it might have turned into pneumonia…." He broke off in dismay as the nurse's face suddenly softened.

"Oh," she said, "yes. _That_ one."

"Well, what is it?" Doc's mouth was dry. "Why're you saying it that way? Is he dead?"

"No." The nurse shook her head, but Doc could read a lot from her inflection. He knew how medical people sounded when they were trying to break bad news. What she meant was _Not yet._

"Where is he?" Doc's genial features hardened.

"Upstairs, third ward, but…"

Doc never heard the rest of the sentence. He was already halfway down the hall.

X X X

He found Saunders in a tiny room lit only by a single, dim lamp on a corner table. They'd put him in semi-quarantine because of his illness, unwilling to risk contaminating the main ward. Doc understood the necessity, but he hated to see the sergeant completely alone, lying as still as death on a narrow cot, his breathing labored. _If he goes out like this, _Doc thought, _solitary, neglected, with nobody beside him, I'll…_

Saunders stirred a little, his hand moving minutely, and Doc was kneeling at his side in an instant, gripping it with all his strength. The medic's face fell into determined lines. It didn't matter what that nurse thought. She didn't know Sarge.

He murmured soft reassurances as he quickly assessed Saunders' condition. He checked the wounds on the sergeant's arms first, satisfying himself they'd been well-stitched. The bandages were clean, with no blood or evidence of infection, which mollified him somewhat. As busy as the doctors were, he grudgingly admitted they were trying to do their best.

Saunders didn't move again or make a sound, and Doc suddenly remembered what his grandmother always said about sick children. _"You don't have to worry about the ones that fuss and cry. They'll be all right. But when they get quiet and still, then it's real bad."_

"Hey," he said softly, "hey, Sarge, it's Doc. Can you hear me? All of us have been worried about you." He readjusted the bandage on Saunders' arm, sucking in his breath as he felt the heat emanating beneath it.

"Sorry." The word was low and slurred, but Doc's face broke into a wide grin. His joy was short-lived, though. He brushed his hand against Saunders' forehead. If possible, the sergeant was even hotter than he'd been when they'd found him in the hunter's cabin the previous day. It was like a furnace was inside him running at full blast.

Saunders tried to open his eyes, but only managed to slit them. "Doc, where am I?" He dragged his tongue over cracked lips. "I gotta report…" he made a feeble effort to rise, but the medic quickly restrained him.

"Stay still. You're sick, remember? We sent you back yesterday. You're in a hospital."

"I don't…" Saunders' expression was confused. There was something young and lost in his face that made Doc catch his breath. He didn't think he'd ever seen Sarge look so vulnerable.

"Here," Doc snatched a glass from the table with the lamp and filled it with water from his canteen. "When was the last time you drank?"

Saunders shook his head. It took all his energy to take a sip and he fell back limply as soon as Doc released him. "Dunno." His head lolled to the side. "Don't know where I am… what time it is…"

"Don't you worry about that stuff right now," Doc said, feeling his gut clinch. By his reckoning, the sergeant was about one step away from delirium.

"Gotta report." Saunders tried to rise again and the medic held him down more firmly.

"Now, you listen to me," Doc said severely, "you don't have to go anywhere. All you need to do is stay still and do what I tell you!"

"Keep your voice down!" A heavy hand fell on Doc's shoulder, pulling him away from the cot. Doc spun around to see a doctor looking down at him. The nurse he'd spoken to earlier stood in the doorway. "Who are you and why are you abusing my patient?"

"Abusin'?" Doc glanced in consternation from one face to the next. "Is that what you think I'm doing?" He cleared his throat, releasing Saunders and coming to attention. "This is my sergeant—I'm the medic for our squad. Lieutenant Hanley sent me here to see how he's doing. I've got a two-day pass." Doc fished in his pocket and presented the orders.

"I see." The doctor relaxed, his face softening. "I think I understand." Taking Doc by the elbow, he guided him away from Saunders. "You can stay if you'd like, but don't touch him like that again. It shouldn't be much longer—maybe just a few hours—and I want to keep him as comfortable as possible."

"What shouldn't be much longer?" Doc's voice faltered.

"His fever keeps going up," the doctor said quietly. "We've given him aspirin, we've given him water, we've rubbed him with alcohol, but he's not responding. His temperature was 105 degrees half an hour ago." He shook his head. "I've seen this before—his body's just too weak to keep fighting. He'd lost a lot of blood before he arrived. We gave him a unit, but the illness has taken a firm hold." He regarded Doc sympathetically, but the medic only looked at the floor, his hands clinched.

"Has it gone into his lungs?"

The doctor frowned. "No, not yet, but…"

"Has his fever gotten higher than 105? Has he had convulsions?"

"No, but soon…"

Doc's head shot up. "Now, you listen here, Captain," he said, looking the doctor straight in the eye, "you know more about medicine than I do, but I know more about this patient than you and I'm not going to let you write him off. You say he's too weak for there to be any hope, but let me tell you this: If he'd come in here with just one cup of blood left in his body, he'd still be stronger than you and me put together!" Doc's eyes flashed. "I don't care if he's comfortable—I care if he's alive!" He jabbed a finger towards the cot where Saunders lay, insensible. "Now, there's a lot of snow outside. Let's get some up here and cold-pack him before it's too late!"

"That's needlessly cruel!" the doctor snapped. "If his body was capable of rallying, we'd have seen some progress already. Let him go peacefully!"

"I'm not gonna let him go peacefully or any other way," Doc said stubbornly. He kept his gaze locked on the doctor's until the officer looked away. "Can you just give up knowing you didn't try everything?"

The doctor's lips thinned, but Doc could tell he was considering the suggestion. "It'll be agonizing for him. The shock could send him into cardiac arrest."

"I know." Doc glanced at Saunders again, praying he still had the strength the medic had seen so often before. "I know, but he wouldn't care about the pain or the risk. Trust me, sir—he'd want us to give him every chance we can."


	2. The Spirit of the Game

**Christmas Blues**

_A sequel to "The Winter Beasts"_

_**Chapter 2: The Spirit of the Game**_

"All right," the doctor said, heaving a sigh. "We'll give it a try, but I hate to subject a dying man to such misery. I suppose you get used to it at the front."

Doc reddened. "I don't get used to nothin' about this war." He refused to drop his gaze, regarding the doctor with no more respect than the man's rank demanded. "Time's passing, Captain. If we're gonna do the job, let's get on with it."

The doctor spoke over his shoulder to the nurse. "Lieutenant Raeford, send two orderlies to bring us tubs filled with snow. Tell them they'll need to stay to hold the patient. I also want towels."

The nurse nodded, casting a quick, curious glance at the unprepossessing medic whose determination had changed the doctor's mind, then disappeared in a flash of olive drab.

While the doctor left to check on the preparations, Doc knelt again by Saunders' side. "Now, you hold on," he whispered. "You're gonna show them all." Slowly, he peeled Saunders' shirt off, careful to work his wounded arms out gently.

Saunders' eyes fluttered open. Doc read the unspoken question in them.

"Your temperature's way too high. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah." Saunders struggled to focus on the medic's face. "Can't see you too well."

"I'm right here and I'm not leaving until you're better," Doc said, trying to keep the misgiving out of his voice. Despite the confidence he'd shown in front of the doctor, his stomach was tangled up in knots. If Sarge's vision was going, the situation was getting dire.

"Doc?" Saunders swallowed hard. "Doc, you'd better get Hanley. I need… I need to talk to him."

Doc knew this time Sarge wasn't trying to report. "The lieutenant's not here," the medic said firmly. "You're in a hospital, remember? Whatever you want to talk to him about can wait until you get back up front."

Saunders shook his head weakly. "Don't understand…"

"I understand just fine." Doc squeezed his hand hard. "Now, you listen to me, Sarge." He glanced up as the door opened and the doctor, nurse, and orderlies filed in. The doctor's face was set in grim lines, but Doc ignored him. They had their work to do and he had his. Doc turned his focus back to Saunders. "We've gotta get your fever down and the only way to do it is to put cold compresses on you. We're gonna use snow, so I need you to get ready, OK?" He laid his palms against the sergeant's burning cheeks, gently capturing his attention.

Saunders lifted his gaze and Doc saw comprehension cut through the film of pain and confusion. "You do… what you need to." Saunders closed his eyes, pressing his face against Doc's hand.

Doc watched the nurse scoop snow into a damp towel, tying it off efficiently. She handed it to him, her expression sympathetic. Steeling himself, Doc nodded to the doctor who took Saunders' near wrist, monitoring his pulse. Then Doc lifted Saunders's arm and placed the compress against his armpit. Saunders' stiffened, his breath hissing between his teeth. One of the orderlies grabbed his legs to keep him from twisting away.

"Hurry up!" Doc took a second compress from the nurse and placed it under Saunders' other arm. The sergeant's head jerked off the cot. "Hang on, hang on," Doc murmured, catching both his hands and nodding at the nurse to put additional compresses across his stomach and against his thighs.

Saunders was panting, struggling not to cry out as the assault on his exhausted body continued, unrelenting. "Max!" He bit the word out in low, agonized tones, the cold burning his skin like a brand. "For God's sake… for God's sake, Max! I need my jacket!"

Doc didn't have time to wonder who Max was, or to care. "Pulse is dangerously fast," the doctor murmured. "He's going into shock." He glanced at the nurse and shook his head. "Take the compresses off."

"No, please!" Doc entreated. "He'll stabilize, Captain. Give him a chance. Sarge," he said, desperately, "Sarge, you gotta listen to me." He forced himself to speak calmly. "Just listen to me and don't pay attention to anything else. You got a card at mail call this morning. It looked like a Christmas card from home—one of those fancy ones with foil on the inside of the envelope. It was real thick, so there's probably a letter inside, too. Lieutenant's gonna to send it along and it should be here tomorrow." He paused, licking his lips. "Sarge, I gotta ask your advice about something. Are you listening? Kirby's sore 'cause Caje keeps taking all his money at poker. Do you think I oughta play a few hands with Kirby and let him win? I mean, just to give him enough to get by until payroll? Would that be against the spirit of the game?"

"Keep talking," the doctor said softly. "His heart rate's normalizing."

Doc swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat wouldn't budge. "Yessir," he said hoarsely. "Now, Sarge," he risked releasing Saunders' hand to place a cold towel across the sergeant's forehead. It was like adding a piece of tinder to a raging fire, and Saunders barely flinched. His body was still rigid, but Doc could feel the minute changes occurring in it, the shift in tension as they no longer needed to grasp him as tightly because he was starting to hold himself in check. "Sarge, you stick with me and don't go to sleep until I tell you to, OK?" Doc cleared his throat, trying desperately to think of something else to say, "Hey, Sarge, remember how Littlejohn's sister had scarlet fever? Well, he got a letter yesterday and she's doin' a lot better. His mother said she'd be well enough to sing in the choir for the Christmas Eve service at their church. Littlejohn says she's got a real sweet soprano…" Doc talked on and on, his voice low and reassuring, while Saunders struggled within a maelstrom of pain. The minutes passed, marked only by the sergeant's harsh, desperate breaths. His body was limp, pressed to its limits, when the doctor finally ordered the compresses removed.

"Sarge?" Doc leaned in, a thermometer in his hand. "Hold this under your tongue and don't bite it in half, you hear?"

Saunders was too tired to even nod, but he allowed Doc to put the thermometer in his mouth. He wanted only to sleep, but the medic jostled him gently when he started to drift off. "Hang on," Doc murmured for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. After a few minutes he pulled the thermometer out and handed it to the doctor, who squinted at it under the dim light of the lamp.

The doctor chuckled softly and the tension Doc had been holding across his shoulders lifted at the sound. "I'll be damned…. 101 degrees." He laid his hand on Doc's shoulder as the medic exhaled so quickly he almost passed out. The doctor's grip braced him, keeping him from falling forward onto Saunders' cot. "The next few hours will be critical. Your sergeant's not out of the woods yet, but you should go to your billet and rest. We'll take good care of him and you can come back to visit tomorrow."

"But…" Doc looked from the doctor to the nurse, then down at Saunders, who seemed to have fallen asleep despite his warning to wait for permission. "But, sir…" He didn't know what he could say that would sway the man. He'd already argued with him over Sarge's treatment and he didn't know how far he could press his luck.

"You can't send a wounded soldier away," the nurse said suddenly. Doc turned to her in surprise, baffled she would intercede for him.

"Wounded?" The doctor frowned.

"There's something wrong with his feet," she explained. "He was limping badly when he arrived."

The doctor scoffed. "Probably just blisters."

"Even blisters can become infected if they're not treated properly," the nurse said serenely. She looked down at Doc. "If we give you medicine and bandages, can you care for yourself?"

"Yeah." Doc looked between them eagerly. "Yeah, I can take care of myself and Sarge, too. I know you're real busy, but I don't even need to take up a bed. I can just lie here on the floor…."

"All right." The doctor held up his hands. "Lieutenant Raeford will give you the supplies you need. Keep an eye on your sergeant and let her know if his fever increases." He turned to the nurse and gestured to Saunders. "I want a glucose IV started for this patient. He's quite a fighter—let's give him something to work with."

After they left, Doc took Saunders' hand once again. It was slack in his, with no trace of the formidable strength that yanked him down into foxholes as shells screamed overhead or dragged him for miles when he was wounded. And yet, Doc knew the strength was still there, locked away. Muscles didn't atrophy overnight. There was power in Sarge's body for him to draw on, if he could.

He was thinking about this when the nurse returned. She covered Saunders lightly with a blanket and started his IV, grimacing in sympathy when he shifted restlessly as the needle entered his arm. She cast a quick glance at Doc. "Do I need to restrain him? Will he pull it out?"

"Nah, he'll be OK." Doc fought unsuccessfully to hold in a yawn as he studied her face. She hadn't seemed very pretty earlier when she'd been scowling at him, but he might have misjudged. In this soft, yellow light she didn't look half bad.

"I brought you some bandages and ointment for your feet," she said, laying them on the table. "I also have a pillow and a couple of blankets. I hate for you to lie on the cold floor without anything to make you comfortable." She smiled and Doc felt his mouth go dry.

"Why, thank you, miss… lieutenant," he corrected quickly.

"Call me if you have trouble." She paused in the doorway, looking back at him standing stupidly in the center of the room, then pulled the door shut with a quiet _snick_.

"_Miss Lieutenant_?" The skepticism in Saunders' sleepy drawl was unmistakable.

"Oh, hush up," Doc said testily. "You can go to sleep any old time now." As he spread the blanket on the floor, he wondered if he was coming down with Sarge's flu—his face felt like it was on fire.

X X X

Doc awoke in the early hours of the morning. He wasn't sure what had disturbed him, but something prodded his sleeping senses. Pushing himself up, he moved to the sergeant's cot and laid his hand on Saunders' forehead. It was warmer, sending alarm coursing through this body. "Sarge!" He gently shook the sleeping man. "Sarge, I need you to wake up!"

Saunders snorted quietly as he was roused, focusing on Doc blearily as the medic slipped a thermometer into his mouth. Doc busied himself removing the completed IV from the sergeant's arm while he waited for the reading. "Your fever's up a degree," Doc said grimly when he pulled the thermometer out and examined it. He shook two aspirin into his hand and lifted Saunders' head while he washed them down. Then he took a towel and submerged it in the tub of snow. Even though it had melted, the water was still frigid. "I've got a compress, Sarge. It's gonna be cold again, but not as bad as before."

Saunders gripped the edge of the cot as Doc set to work bathing his chest and arms, but he didn't interfere with the medic. "You're gonna be OK," Doc said quietly. "None of us were sure before, but you're gettin' the better of this. You know that, don't you?"

Saunders nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He shivered and Doc smiled. "That's a good sign," he said. "Means your body's getting strong enough to fight back. I know it's hard, but try to relax. I'll stop as soon as you're cooler."

Doc kept his word and when he felt the sergeant's fever falling, he gently covered him and crawled back to his pallet on the floor. He heaved a sigh of relief, grateful he'd woken when he had. As he pulled the blanket tightly around himself, he heard Saunders' low voice in the darkness. "Yes."

Startled by the _non sequitur_, Doc sat up. "Sarge?"

"The answer to your question is _yes_." Saunders' voice was weak, but he finally sounded like himself again. "Letting Kirby win at poker would be against the spirit of the game. He's gotta take his chances, just like the rest of us."

"You heard that?"

"Bits and pieces. Enough."

Saunders trailed off and Doc heard the cot squeak as he shifted, trying to get comfortable. Doc smiled and closed his eyes. They'd been dealt a rough hand, but the odds in Sarge's favor were improving all the time.


	3. Tremulo

**Christmas Blues**

_A sequel to "The Winter Beasts"_

_**Chapter 3: Tremulo**_

The next time Doc awoke, it was to the smell of coffee wafting through the room and the roar of fighter planes filling the air. They were so many the hospital shook with their passing and he wondered, jumping to his feet, if the building was stable enough to withstand the vibrations.

Lieutenant Raeford was at the window, the thermometer she'd just taken out of Saunders' mouth limp in her hand. "The sky's black with them," she murmured.

Doc came to her side, his heart lifting with the planes cutting the clear, morning sky. "Weather's finally better," he said. "Now we can get some air support."

"I'm glad," she whispered. "I'm so glad. We've had to pull back twice this week and I've been waiting for the order to evacuate again. I can't ever relax because I keep thinking we'll have to leave at any moment." Tears began to flow and she wiped them away with a trembling hand. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be doing this. You have troubles enough."

Doc thought of all the reassuring things he could say, but none were adequate. He'd never considered himself brave, so he was just as surprised as Lieutenant Raeford when he put his arm around her, bringing her head to his shoulder. Her tears marked his collar, but he didn't mind. His clothes had been stained with worse. "Hey," he said gently, "how's Sarge this morning?"

She sniffed, giving him a wan smile. "101. Holding his own."

Taking her hand, he led her to Saunders' cot. The sergeant's eyes were tactfully closed, but he opened them immediately as they approached. "Lots of planes, huh?"

"You wouldn't believe." Doc gently pushed Saunders' legs aside and sat on the edge of the cot. In the morning light, the sergeant was paler and thinner than Doc had ever seen him, but at least he was alert.

"Good Christmas present."

"One of the best," Doc agreed.

"Well, I have a gift for you both," the lieutenant said. "Hot coffee." She passed Doc a mug. "That one's for you. Will you help your sergeant with his?"

"Saunders," Sarge said, catching her eye.

"Lieutenant Raeford." She offered her hand, pleased he made the effort to reach up and grasp it. "I'm glad to finally meet you properly."

"Sarge drinks his coffee black," Doc said helpfully.

"Not today, he doesn't." The lieutenant poured a generous dollop of condensed milk into Saunders' mug. She eyed him critically. "You're thin as a rail."

"I don't think he's eaten anything since the night of the 21st." Doc helped Saunders prop up, steadying the mug as the sergeant brought it to his lips.

"Well, good food and excellent nursing will have you back on your feet in no time," she said jauntily. "I'll bring you both some breakfast, but I can't stay." Her voice fell. "We have so many casualties. I'm afraid… well," she tried to smile, "we're all afraid, aren't we?"

"Nice girl," Saunders commented as the door closed behind her.

"Yeah." The medic studied the floor between his feet. No hospital should be so dusty, but he guessed it was hard to tidy up a shelled building.

"Why don't you go help her? Looks like she's got her hands full this morning. I'll be fine."

Doc glanced at Saunders in surprise. There was an utter weariness about the man that disturbed him, but he didn't seem to be in imminent danger. Doc just wasn't used to seeing the sergeant so completely exhausted. His body was burned out, hollowed by fire, yet there was a spark in his eyes, a candle still burning bright in the ruins. "But Lieutenant Hanley said…"

"I should have figured Hanley sent you."

"He was worried when he heard how many casualties were being sent back. He was afraid you'd slip through the cracks."

"I almost did." Warmth stole into Saunders' voice. "Good thing you're so stubborn."

"I shoulda been more stubborn at that hunter's cabin," Doc said bitterly. "It's my fault we almost lost you."

"Don't you start, too." Saunders' arm shook as he lifted the mug and Doc quickly braced him before he could slosh coffee onto his hand. "Caje is bad enough." He took a long swallow, then handed the mug back to Doc and closed his eyes. Doc doubted he had the strength to keep them open any longer.

"Sarge," he began tentatively, "what happened in that cabin?"

Saunders didn't answer. His deep, regular breathing would have convinced most people he'd fallen asleep, but Doc knew better. He sighed and shook his head. Any confidences would have to come in Saunders' own way and in his own time, and no amount of coaxing would hurry him along.

X X X

Saunders slept most of the day, waking only to take water and a little food. At first Doc kept watch dutifully by his side, but as the hours passed and the sergeant's condition remained stable, he began to grow restless. Finally, as afternoon was waning, he went in search of Lieutenant Raeford.

He found her changing a bandage on a stomach wound in the main ward. Her patient was insensible, lost in morphine dreams, and Doc felt a pang of jealousy. When he bound a stomach wound, it was usually on a man who was writhing in agony, screaming and clawing his arm while he worked. Or the soldier would be begging the medic not to let him die, as if Doc had any choice in the matter. And yet, once the words were spoken, once the boy had pleaded with _him_, looked _him_ in the eye in terror and anguish, he felt responsible. Just like he'd made the hole in the kid's gut himself.

Lieutenant Raeford looked up and noticed him watching her. A tired smile broke across her face. "Well, hello," she said. "I didn't see you standing there. What were you thinking, just now?"

"I'm thinkin' it sure is quiet in here," Doc said truthfully. "I'm not used to wounded men being quiet."

"You're used to your sergeant, aren't you? He managed last night better than I expected, but I suppose he's had a lot of practice. I don't think I've ever seen as many scars on a soldier who isn't on his way back home. He looks like our family's car after my younger brother's been driving—dents and scratches everywhere!"

Doc laughed. It felt good to laugh with her. "Well, OK, I'm used to _him_ being pretty quiet while I patch him up." He sobered. "Not the others. Not the ones I've lost."

She didn't offer any platitudes, just patted his arm as she gathered the bloody bandages. "Do you need the doctor? Is he worse?"

"Nah, he's just the same." Doc shook his head. "Wish I'd see some improvement, but I'll take what I can get."

"Give him time. Think how far he's come since he was brought in here."

He caught her elbow as she stood, swaying. "Can I help you? You look real tired."

"I am. I've just pulled a twenty-hour shift. They didn't tell me about those in nursing school."

"They didn't tell us much, did they?" Doc asked softly. "I mean, nothin' to get us ready for this?"

"No." She deposited the bandages in the waste bin and took his arm. "I'm going off duty now and I think I'll sleep until it's time to go on again. Will you escort me to my room, kind sir?"

She looked up at him, lips parted, and he struggled to find the right words. "It'll be my pleasure, miss."

Lieutenant Raeford bunked with four other nurses on the first floor. The room was cramped, with fewer feminine touches than he'd expected. Doc remembered what she'd said about pulling back so many times. He guessed the women didn't even bother to unpack their bags anymore. As he scanned the room, his eyes fell on a guitar case lying beside one of the cots. The black leather was spotless in spite of the ubiquitous dust coating the legs of the furniture.

Lieutenant Raeford followed his gaze. "My prize possession," she said. "Every time I've moved, it's come with me. It's a miracle it hasn't gotten broken, but it's a tough instrument." She regarded it fondly, lost in memories.

"What kinds of things do you play?"

"Bach, mostly, but other classical music, too." She pushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "Do you know how?"

"Yeah," he said, "my whole family's musical. I used to sit with my dad in the evenings and we'd pick while the sun went down. It didn't matter if it got full dark, 'cause he didn't need any light to find the right notes." Doc broke off, blushing. "It wasn't Bach or anything, though. Just the kind of music we play down our way." He shook his head. "It's been a while now. Too long."

"Here," she held the case out towards him. "Why don't you borrow it?"

"I don't know…"

"Go on—it's all right." She pressed the handle into his hand. "Do you know any Christmas music?"

"Sure."

"Play some for your sergeant, then." Lieutenant Raeford turned away, tugging the pins out of her hair. It fell in a wave down her back. "Maybe it's just what he needs," she said over her shoulder as Doc stammered thanks, pulling the door shut behind him as he quickly backed out into the hall.

X X X

The wood was smooth and cool beneath Doc's palms. He sat on the floor beside Saunders' cot, running his hand reverently over the guitar's fretboard, afraid to sound the first note. His fingers had closed so many eyes since they'd last plucked strings. He wasn't sure he deserved the luxury, but Lieutenant Raeford said music might be good for Saunders. Doc wasn't sure how—it would probably just bother him—but the sergeant needed all the help he could get.

Holding his breath, Doc dove into _Silent Night_, letting the familiar strains sooth his tense nerves. Darkness had fallen outside and the single lamp cast a weak glow across Saunders' still features. When Doc had returned to the room, he'd found the sergeant's fever on the rise. Cursing himself for having left his post, he'd quickly given Saunders aspirin and applied cold compresses, which the sergeant endured with tight-lipped stoicism. Now that he'd gotten the situation back under control and his patient was resting quietly, Doc prayed Saunders' temperature wouldn't rise again. He wasn't sure the sergeant could survive another spike like he'd endured the previous night.

Saunders shifted, the music invading his exhausted dreams, summoning him to wakefulness. He frowned in wonder as he focused on Doc. "I thought you'd found a radio." His voice was hoarse. "Where'd you get the guitar?"

"Lieutenant Raeford."

"I should've guessed."

Doc put the instrument aside and lifted the sergeant's head, offering him water. "Are you hurtin'?"

Saunders shook his head. "Just tired." He closed his eyes again. "Keep playing, OK?"

"I will in a minute," Doc said, pleased the sergeant liked his efforts, even though he was badly out of practice. "You gotta eat something first. They brought soup up for you a few minutes ago. Try it while it's still hot."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're gonna eat anyway," Doc said stubbornly. "It's the only way you'll get the strength to beat this."

Saunders smiled faintly. "They should make you a sergeant." He pulled himself up with effort, letting Doc help him with the spoon. "What time is it?" he asked around a mouthful of chicken broth. The warm aroma filled the room and Doc felt himself breathing deeply, sharing the comfort it brought.

"Probably around 21:00."

"Christmas Eve?" Saunders shot Doc a quick, questioning glance.

"Yeah, that's right."

A look of satisfaction crossed Saunders' face. "I lost track of everything for a while there," he said quietly. "You take it for granted: knowing where you are, what day it is, who's with you. Without any of that…" he broke off, shaking his head, and Doc realized for the first time how scared Saunders had been. He hadn't thought about it before, but it made sense that loss of control would frighten the sergeant more than just about anything.

Saunders' unflinching gaze held his. He wasn't looking for reassurance, or pity, or anything else from the medic. He was simply being honest, but it caught Doc off guard. He didn't know how to react to this side of the tough, laconic sergeant. Maybe when Saunders was better, he'd forget what he'd let Doc see in the stillness of the tiny hospital room. Somehow, Doc doubted it, though.

"Good soup," Saunders commented, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"Yeah, I bet Littlejohn would give you five bucks for it."

Saunders chuckled and Doc smiled to see him calm and easy after all he'd been through in the last few days. When the soup was finished the sergeant curled onto his side, closing his eyes. "What other songs do you know?" he asked sleepily.

Doc pulled the guitar into his lap like a beloved child. "A whole bunch," he said. "Don't you worry—I won't run out."


	4. Leading Tones

**Christmas Blues**

_A sequel to "The Winter Beasts"_

_Thanks for your patience, everyone. I never intended to take so long posting the final chapter, but the holidays and the general busyness afterwards played havoc with my plans. Thanks to all of you for your kind reviews and encouragement. I finally finished watching all the episodes of Combat! and I have to say I'm a little sad I can never again discover them again for the first time. What an amazing show!_

_**Chapter 4: Leading Tones**_

At first, Doc couldn't place the rattling. It sounded like a bayonet tapping against the wall or bombers flying over just low enough for the building to respond to the edge of their passing. The room was completely dark, heavy coverings on the windows blocking out even the faint sheen of moonlight. The rattling continued, quietly and persistently, and Doc realized with growing horror what was causing the sound.

Saunders was shaking. Every time a tremor hit him the legs of his cot shifted, beating out a staccato pattern. _Convulsions_. The medic leaped up in blind panic only to trip over his blanket. He fell forward onto the sergeant, his fingers tangling in wet hair. It took a moment to register the unexpected sensation. _Wet hair. Damp skin beneath his hands. _A grin broke across Doc's face and he let out a low, incredulous exclamation. He barely registered Saunders' sleepy protests as he pulled the sergeant close in a joyous embrace.

"Doc? What's going on?" Saunders grasped his arms and Doc's smile broadened. There was strength in that grip—a little.

"Your fever's broken." Doc could hardly believe it. He repeated the words, reassuring himself it was true. "Your fever's broken. That's why you're sweatin' so hard."

Saunders shivered violently. "Got another blanket?"

"You need to put some dry clothes on first. I've got extra shorts and T-shirts in my bag. Can you change?"

"Yeah." Saunders shook his head to clear it. "Yeah, I think so."

"Let me get the light on before we wake up the whole ward." Doc felt his way over to the table and switched on the lamp. His shadow leaped out of the darkness, impossibly tall against the bare wall. It commanded the tiny space, looming over the sergeant. Saunders was sitting on the edge of his cot, hunched over his wounded arms, his hair plastered to his forehead like he'd been out on patrol all night in the rain. He was still half-asleep, his eyes silver slits. The legs of the cot continued their tapping as he shivered uncontrollably.

"You're gonna wear yourself out if we don't get you warmed up," Doc muttered. He knelt in front of the sergeant and suddenly there were no giants in the room, only the shadows of two men, comfortably equal. He pried the sweat-soaked blanket out of Saunders' fingers and pressed the fresh clothes into his hands. Then he turned half-away as Saunders changed, ready to jump in and help if the sergeant couldn't manage on his own.

"Got that blanket now?" Saunders asked after he'd finished. He was too exhausted to share Doc's jubilation, but quiet gratitude was evident in every line of his face.

"Here, drink this." Doc offered a glass of water. "You're dehydrated."

"Wish I could get a shower," Saunders said as he took a swallow. "I'm not sure I've got the energy yet, though." He acknowledged Doc with a nod as the medic draped a dry blanket across his shoulders.

"Tomorrow," Doc promised. "What you need now more than anything is rest—real rest, for hours and hours. For a week, if you can get it." He took the empty glass from Saunders' hands and pushed him down, spreading the blanket across him.

"What about you?"

Doc switched the light off and stretched out beside the cot. "Well," he said, "I think I might be able to rest now, too!"

Free from worry for the first time in days, the medic slept like one of the dead. He was oblivious when Lieutenant Raeford peeked in at dawn to check on them, pulling back the blackout curtains and suffusing the room in gray light. She pressed her hand against Saunders' cheek, smiling at the cool skin beneath the stubble of his beard, then withdrew silently, unwilling to disturb either of her patients.

X X X

A tremulous note, beautiful and strained, sounded out of the depths of Doc's dreams. Caught on the border of sleep and waking, the medic couldn't be sure if it was real or a memory from some lost summer. _Before all this. Before the war._ Just when it started to fade—and when Doc decided he must have dreamed it after all—it resolved downwards into another tone, more plaintive but equally lovely. The unknown melody twisted through the shadows of Doc's mind, no Christmas carol or folk song he'd ever heard. The medic listened, the morning light pricking his closed eyelids, as the dark, haunting strains filled the room. Lieutenant Raeford had said she'd studied classical music. He didn't know she could play the blues so skillfully.

Then he realized she couldn't. His eyes flew open.

Saunders was sitting up on his cot, his back against the wall, holding the guitar across his body like a shield. His wounded arms made his position awkward, but his fingers were sure on the fret board. Watching him confidently explore each note, Doc knew this wasn't a man casually fooling around to pass the time. The sergeant could play, and play well.

"Hey," Doc whispered, "where'd you learn that?"

Saunders didn't answer for so long Doc had almost decided he was too engrossed in the music to have heard the question. He thought about repeating it when Saunders said, unexpectedly, "My dad died when I was twelve."

Doc blinked. Sarge hardly ever talked about his family and mentioned his past even less. "Did he teach you? That's real good playin'."

"No." Saunders glanced up, an unreadable expression on his face. "My father couldn't play. Never learned and would have thought it was a waste of time."

"Is that what you think? Is that why you've never picked up a guitar even though we've come across more than a few?"

Saunders dropped his eyes, shaking his head. His fingers shifted minutely, leaving the last note he plucked trembling in the air. He rescued it before it could fall, building it into a full-bodied chord. "There was a construction site I passed on the way home from school," he said softly. "We needed money, so I'd stop and ask if there was anything I could do. They'd always say 'no,' but I'd hang around a while anyway, in case they changed their minds." He frowned, concentrating on a difficult riff. Doc wondered how he could play at all with his fingers still stiff from frostbite.

"One of the men was a big guy—Joey—and he played during his breaks. I'd sit beside him and watch what he did. Well, one day Joey dropped a drill down a real narrow shaft and told me to scramble down and get it out for him. It was dark in there—a tight fit even for a kid."

"I bet you got it, though." Doc could imagine Sarge, a skinny boy with bright eyes, hair bleached to straw by the sun, chewing his lip with determination as he contemplated the dangerous task.

Saunders looked up, smiling faintly as he remembered. "I told him I'd do it for a nickel."

"You got your nickel?"

"I got a job. Every day after school. And after high school, I stayed with the company full time until the war. Worked my way up." He shrugged. "I was lucky."

"Wasn't luck," Doc observed. "It hasn't ever been luck, with you."

Saunders ignored him. "Big Joey taught me a lot of things. This," he nodded towards the guitar, "was just one of them." He fell silent, picking the next notes with care. "Joey said the blues talk for you when you can't talk for yourself, can say what can't be said." He bent low over the strings, wrapping himself in a blanket of sound.

Doc watched the sergeant's hands move masterfully over the strings, wondering. The melody was Saunders' own, as beautiful and yearning as any he'd ever heard. The tension of the past days—the shame he'd felt abandoning the sergeant to a horrible death, the dread at what they'd find in the cabin, and the unbelieving relief when he'd realized, somehow, Saunders was still alive—began to slowly dissipate, flowing out on the tide of sound. Before he realized it, tears were streaming down his cheeks, his eyes too full to hold them any longer.

Saunders played on, his own eyes dry, while the guitar wept.

X X X

Lieutenant Raeford brought Doc lunch to fortify him for his journey back to the front. To the medic's disappointment she insisted on soup for Saunders instead of an equally hearty Christmas dinner. He felt guilty eating his fill in front of the sergeant, but Saunders didn't seem to mind.

"I've always liked turkey sandwiches on the day after better, anyway," Saunders said sleepily. He was lying down again, the guitar propped against the wall beside him. Doc had helped him shower earlier that morning, an adventure that had depleted the sergeant's meager reserve of strength. He'd been exhausted ever since, but this time Doc wasn't concerned. There was no question in the medic's mind that Sarge would be OK.

"Don't worry," Lieutenant Raeford said, looking at Doc with amusement. "I'll fatten him up before we discharge him."

"When will that be?" Saunders asked.

"The doctor says you'll be back with your company in a week, if you cooperate and rest. You should stick to light duty for a few more days after that, though, until your arms are fully healed."

"I'll make sure the Lieutenant doesn't send him out right away," Doc said, swallowing his last forkful of cranberry sauce.

"You can tell your lieutenant what to do?"

"Told that doctor, didn't I?"

Lieutenant Raeford laughed. "I see I shouldn't underestimate either of you!" She slipped Doc a folded note. He looked up at her in wonder as he read it. She blushed. "Well, you have to know how to reach me," she said, "in case his stitches pull out too soon or… or something!"

"I'll write," Doc said quietly, "and let you know how he's doing."

"And how you're doing." She squeezed Doc's hand once, tightly, and whisked the empty tray away. She turned at the door, looking him up and down one more time, then was gone.

"I told you she was a nice girl," Saunders said with satisfaction. He frowned, noticing the lengthening shadows outside the window. "You'd better get going or you'll be AWOL."

He held out his hand and Doc grasped it, pleased by the firm grip. "Anything you still want to tell Lieutenant Hanley?"

Saunders shook his head. "Not a thing, except… thank him for sending you."

Doc smiled and met the sergeant's eyes. No other response was necessary.

X X X

"He's all right? You're sure?" Hanley leaned across the table, studying Doc's face closely. The medic was a lousy liar and he looked genuinely happy, so the lieutenant was inclined to believe his report.

"Yes, sir. The fever's gone, he's eating, talking…."

"What does he say about the kraut?" Hanley asked quietly. "About what happened to him?"

"He didn't say a thing about it." Hanley frowned and Doc rushed to reassure him. "You know Sarge—he wouldn't. But it seems to me… it seems to me, sir, that he's _better_."

Hanley cocked his head, eyeing him curiously. "Better how?"

"I can't explain it, exactly." Doc struggled for the right words. "Before, he was wound up real tight, like a spring with too many coils. He was taking everything on his shoulders, more and more with each patrol, and not letting anything out. And when we heard about what happened at Malmedy…" Doc shook his head. "We were all mad, but Sarge was like ice. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when he snapped—" he broke off, realizing his mistake too late.

"Snapped? Saunders?" Hanley's eyes narrowed.

"It wasn't anything big—nothing that should go on his record," Doc said hastily. When Hanley continued to eye him levelly, waiting for an explanation, he cleared his throat. "He hit the kraut a couple of times, that's all."

"Was it in self defense? To prevent an escape?" Doc's silence effectively answered the questions. The lieutenant frowned. "That doesn't sound like Saunders."

"No, sir," Doc agreed. "But now it's different. _He's_ different." He lapsed into silence, remembering how easily the sergeant had accepted help in the hospital, how honestly he'd acknowledged his fear and weakness. He was used to Saunders being tough and silent, guarding his feelings as carefully as his words. The sergeant's uncharacteristic openness had been nagging at him, reminding him of something, and suddenly he knew what it was: the SS officer, tied on the floor of the cabin, completely at his captors' mercy. _Scared, kraut?_ Saunders had sneered. _Naturally_, the German replied, as if such an admission was the most ordinary thing in the world. In that moment, Doc had thought their prisoner was either a great coward or incredibly brave.

He shook his head, dismissing the memory. There was no way Sarge was taking a leaf from the German's book, from the psychopath who'd tortured him. And, yet…

"Different how?" Hanley's question interrupted his thoughts. "Broken?" The lieutenant's voice was tense, demanding and dreading an answer.

The medic's eyes widened. "No! No, that's not it at all. Sarge still has plenty of fight in him. We thought we were going to lose him, but you know how Sarge is: he wasn't about to die. He fought hard—real hard—to live." Doc's eyes filled at the memory and he dropped them quickly. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's like the spring inside Sarge has come uncoiled, but the wire's twice as strong." He chanced a glance at Hanley's face. "He's relaxed, sir. That's all I mean."

The lieutenant's expression was thoughtful. "I expected to find Saunders dead," he said finally. "When we discovered him alive, I thought he'd be furious about what was done to him. What you're reporting… what he said to us in the cabin about forgetting about it, letting it all go so easily… I don't understand."

"I don't either," Doc admitted, "but I don't care as long as he's whole again."

Hanley allowed himself to smile. "I'm looking forward to seeing this transformation myself," he said. "When's he due back?"

"The nurse said in a week."

Hanley stood up, signaling the end of their conversation. "I'll look for him in four or five days, then."

X X X

"Why're you so tired when you've been on leave for two days? We've been working our asses off!" Kirby crouched by Doc's bunk, his cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.

The medic lay stretched on his back, his arms pillowing his head.

"Maybe he's sleepy 'cause he ate so much," Littlejohn suggested. "Hey, Doc—did you get some turkey?"

"Yep."

"Mashed potatoes? Cranberry sauce?"

Doc didn't bother to open his eyes. "Yep."

"You hear that?" Kirby's indignation was palpable. "He's been having the time of his life stuffing his face while we've been slogging through the snow! What about a dame, though? Bet you didn't get a dame!" Kirby punched Doc's arm lightly.

The memory of Lieutenant Raeford holding out her guitar to him filled the medic's mind. He chuckled softly. "Now that you mention it, I might have." He rolled over, turning his back on Kirby. He didn't need to see his friend's startled expression. "I just might have, at that!"


End file.
